


Tailspinning

by guanoo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deus Ex Machina, M/M, No Sex, Pre-Slash, Scratching, Ship Averted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7336885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanoo/pseuds/guanoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[<span class="u">2.04</span>| "You're on edge, you're erratic - except for when you're hunting, because then you're downright scary. You're tailspinning, man. And you refuse to talk about it and you won't let me help you."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tailspinning

The dirty yellow light spilling from a single, v-shaped lantern on the wall casts ghostly shadows over his brother's hunched form. Dean pauses in the doorway, eyes hidden in twin pools of darkness. Sam watches him, heart tripping nervously inside his ribs—something about his brother's half-hidden stillness makes him seem unearthly, even dangerous. 

Sam slides his palms over the calloused soles of his feet. They answer with a dry, papery sound. Moments creep by.

Finally, to break the tense silence, Sam croaks, "What time is it?"

Dean steps into the light but his eyes remain dark. "Late," he says shortly, leaning over the motel desk and toying with the pad of paper there. As time ticks by, a steady surge of adrenaline rouses Sam to alertness.

Abruptly, Dean drops the pad and crosses his arms over his chest. "Still wanna help me?" he grunts. His lips curl around the word  _help_ like it's an obscenity.

But Sam is powerless in the face of the tiny, fragile hope that his brother's concession sparks, and he blurts "Yes" before he's had time to process the request. It's true—Sam will do anything to help his brother, especially if it involves jolting him out of his downward spiral. While Dean steadily loses his shit, Sam gnaws his nails to the quick, waiting— _waiting_ —for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Dean to pull a stunt so dangerous that he doesn't have to deal with Dad's sacrifice any longer. But when Dean lifts his head, the meager light catches on the whites of his eyes in a way that makes Sam's skin prickle with goosebumps, and he wonders if he somehow gave the wrong answer.

Then Dean's moving. The motel carpet muffles the thuds of his boots as he tosses them aside. He approaches Sam with slow, smooth motions, and Sam watches, transfixed. When Dean's not stomping around yelling at everything, he's downright graceful.

And, Sam realizes belatedly, Dean's letting his shirts fall to the ground as he removes them.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam resists the temptation to scramble back across the bed, away from Dean's approach. He's down to one flimsy layer when he gets a knee on the bed beside Sam's hip and catches Sam's wrists between strong fingers.

"Scratch me," he orders.

Despite the steady rumble of fear in his stomach— _fear, coupled with_ _something else Sam doesn't feel like examining right now—_ Sam blinks up at his brother. "Huh?"

Dean lays one of Sam's hands on his shoulder and presses down hard until Sam's fingers curl into his shirt. "Do it," he demands.

Sam swallows. "This ... this'll help?"

"Dunno," Dean shrugs. He's going for casual, but Sam can hear the heartbreaking uncertainty in his voice _—every time he thinks he understands how unmoored Dean feels, he discovers he hasn't even scratched the surface—_ and he nods quickly. "Yeah—okay."

Watching his brother's eyes for any indication that he's misunderstanding, Sam rakes his fingers down the outside of Dean's arm, feeling the pull of sweaty skin when he drops below the sleeve of his t-shirt, pausing by his elbow. Dean's eyes flutter closed but his voice remains steady. "Again."

Sam scrapes his nails upwards this time, and Dean lets out a long sigh. "Use both hands."

Scratching his pale arms leaves long red welts, visible even in the dim light. After several minutes of marring his skin, Sam runs his nails under the sleeves of Dean's shirt, searching out unmarked flesh. Dean shivers, shifting his hips forward. Sam freezes.

"Can't feel it, Sammy," Dean murmurs abstractly. "Can't feel ... can't feel _anything_." And he pushes Sam's hand under his shirt, guiding it back across his scapula, then forward, under his arm. He doesn't flinch when Sam's fingertips tease the soft hair, but deftly shoves Sam's other hand under the front of his shirt.

Sam's holding his breath, so his  _"Dean?"_ comes out a little strained, but he can't help feeling the smooth heat under his palms, curling his fingers into Dean's stomach.

Dean's answering chuckle sounds dark and predatory. "Still wanna help me?" he repeats, but this time the words drip with something forbidden, sticky-sweet.

Sam shudders and doesn't reply.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean breathes into his ear— _alcohol on his breath_ , Sam notices, and  _wrong wrong wrong_ , but his brain can't quite process this new information—"Don't you wanna make it all better? How're y'gonna do that, huh? Think you can  _heal_ me?" Sam feels, rather than sees, the curl of Dean's lip this time, but the jeer is lost in the way Dean drags Sam's hands up his body: bones of Sam's knuckles sliding conspicuously under the drab green of Dean's t-shirt. A strangled noise works its way out of Sam's throat before he can bite it back; his hips jerk up helplessly as Dean slides his other knee past Sam's hip.

"Dean, _please,_ " Sam begs, because this close Dean's downright sensual, brother or not.

"Can't feel a goddamned thing," Dean continues, as if his little brother weren't having a distinctly unbrotherly reaction beneath him. He's actually moving his hips now, and Sam's cock is growing unmistakably stiff in his pajama pants, but Dean just drops his head forward, pressing his temple into Sam's, and groans, "C'mon, Sammy. What're those strong arms for, huh? Dig your nails in ... Need you—Want you to bring me back."

_Back from the dead._

At his words, Sam grits his teeth and manages to rasp, "Dean, what are you doing?" In answer, Dean arches his back, and Sam's nails slide down— _he blames the sweat_ —over thick lats and scrape against denim. Dean hitches his hips right then, and Sam's fingers dip past the taut hem of his brother's pants, brushing the beginning of the sensual curve of his ass.

Sam hisses— _not like he_ wants  _to think about his brother like this_ —but at Dean's coaxing, he pushes his fingers past jeans and boxers, raking his nails dutifully across his brother's flesh. Dean can't quite suppress a moan, and before Sam knows what's happening, two t-shirts are ripped away and a sweaty chest presses against his and their noses are inches apart. Dean's eyes are wide and glassy, lost— _shouldn't be such a surprise, Sam, get with the program_ —and they regard him for a long, damning moment before he surges forward. Soft, wet lips skim and push against Sam's, just once.

Something about the tentative, shocky kiss jars Sam back to reality and he grabs his brother's sides— _slapping sound against skin reddened with Sam's marks_ —and shakes him hard.

"This is your alternative?" he demands through gritted teeth. His bangs have fallen in his eyes but he can tell Dean's finally paying attention. "This your alternative to _dying_?"

Moments pass in silence. The trembling under Sam's skin subsides enough for him to brush the hair out of his face and really get a look at his brother. Dean's brow is creased, eyes dark. He looks downright violent. When their eyes lock, Dean lashes out with words, growling, "You're the one who wants me to stick around so bad." Three fingers dig into Sam's chest under his collarbone and shove. Sam falls back against the bed, bouncing despite the worn mattress. Dean stares down at him. "You prepared to keep me here? Huh? You saw Neil's body. What do you think that dead thing was asking for payment?"

Under the threat, all Sam hears is  _dead thing_ , and all he understands is  _that's what Dean thinks of himself._

He sits up abruptly, blurting out, "Dean, that's—no! It's different. She was ... she was _decaying_ man! You—you heal." His fingers trace over the line on Dean's forehead where the skin knit together after the accident—gentle, despite the frightened desperation coursing through him. Then his hand drops to span Dean's bare chest. "Your heart's still beating, Dean!" Dean makes a dismissive gesture with his eyes and Sam uses his free hand to grab Dean's hip, digging his fingers in hard, like that can bring his brother home to the reality that he isn't a goddamned zombie. "It's—it's just _different,_ man. You gotta trust me on this one."

Dean shoves his hand away. "That's just physical," he mutters, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He's still straddling Sam's lap, though, and when he rocks his hips forward and leans in to brush his nose alongside Sam's, Sam can't quite suppress a shudder. "You're hard," Dean observes.

Sam can't say anything to that— _can't quite believe that his own brother gets him hard (and maybe there's something to Dean's unflagging energy when it comes to getting Sam laid after all)—_ but he  _is_ aroused, so he just sits there with his head bowed, horny and caught out, until he sees the television flick on past Dean's ear.

Dean stiffens. "Sam?" he says, and all the heat has drained from his voice.

"Yeah," Sam gulps. "Don't look now, but there's a girl climbing out of the television."

"Sonofabitch."

Dean tumbles off him into a crouch, already riffling through the weapons bag at the foot of the other bed. A fraction of a second later, he straightens, shotgun in hand, and blasts the spirit before it can touch Sam with its dripping fingers. It dematerializes with a wail, leaving them both blinking.

"The hell was that?" Dean wants to know.

"Onryō," Sam replies, still a little dazed.

Dean cocks an eyebrow at him.

"It's—I wrote a paper on them. Film studies. Turns out  _The Ring_ was kind of a big deal."

Dean eyes him with disbelief. "They let you write a paper on  _The Ring_ at Stanford?"

Sam shrugs. "Professor Harding said the depth of critical analysis was more important than the topic."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Well I hated that movie. All bloated corpses and bodily fluids."

He fires again before Sam has time to realize the spirit has returned. Sam grabs the barrel of the gun. "Can you find some fucking iron or something?" he hisses, because it would really suck if— _after all their untried felonies and misdemeanors_ —the cops wound up busting them for firing rock salt across a motel room.

Dean nods. "You're right."

The spirit reappears and goes straight for Sam's throat, tossing him over the dresser and choking him. In his struggles he cuts his eyes across the room and can't even see his brother. "Dean," he wheezes, "little help!"

"Gotcha," Dean smiles, re-emerging from his search with a full-on old-fashioned poker. He laughs as he cuts through the spirit.

Sam hacks until he can breathe again, then narrows his eyes at his brother. "You stole that."

Dean frowns. "So? It's useful!"

"Behind you!"

Dean twists gracefully. "Knew I shoulda gone out for baseball at Grand Rapids High."

Sam's still working through awe that their motel room is haunted. Aloud, he wonders, "What are the chances of stumbling on two hunts in one town?"

"Maybe it's karma because you didn't believe me last time," Dean suggests offhand, eyes focusing on something behind Sam. Before he can turn, Dean's stabbed the poker between his knees.

Sam jumps, then purses his lips. "Thanks," he snaps.

Dean just grins like he didn't almost castrate his little brother. "You're welcome. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam almost smiles. _Lucky break_ , he thinks.  _Maybe Dean would do better with a few simple salt-and-burns._ He makes a mental note to ignore major cases he sees in the news for a couple months.

"But seriously, Sammy, you know why hunts keep falling in our laps? It's 'cause psychics are fuckin magnets for paranormal shit."

—which should have been obvious. Now that he thinks about it, Sam distinctly remembers reading as much in Dad's journal. "I'm sorry?" he tries.

"Nah, don't be. Saves us the goddamned research."

Sam tilts his head: Dean has a point, and Dean really, really detests researching anything aside from weird porn. Anyway he sounded—not happy exactly, but ... pleased?

The vengeful spirit appears between them next, hair long and lank. It reaches for Sam's neck again before Dean swipes it away.

"Hey Sam. See if there's a VCR."

Sam's already picking apart the dresser underneath the television. "Nope."

"Maybe like a VHS?"

"Dean," Sam sighs patiently. "Movies don't accurately reflect the lore."

"Bet that's what you wrote your paper on," Dean mutters belligerently.

Sam doesn't respond because, one, that basically  _was_ the topic of his paper, and two? the spirit is choking him. Again.

 

After nearly half an hour of taking apart the motel room with Dean dancing around him, slashing the air with a fire poker, Sam finds the tiniest bit of blood on the tv plug. Dean sets fire to it, rather impulsively in Sam's opinion. Good news is the spirit disappears. Bad news is they start a minor electrical fire and make a bunch of noise putting it out.

Then comes the knock at the door.

They both crowd in the narrow opening, trying to block out the wreckage behind them. Given their combined bulk and the way the manager is straining his neck to see over Sam's shoulder, Sam thinks they mostly succeed.

"I smell fire," the manager says with great suspicion. "And didn't I hear shots earlier?"

Dean flashes an insincere smirk and explains that Sam burned his popcorn and turned the volume up way too loud on the TV, punctuating his explanation with a sharp smack to Sam's ass.

Sam supposes that answers the question of whether they're discussing the earlier catastrophe. 

 

"I'm beat," Dean admits.

They stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying the damage. One of the beds is ruined—first the spirit burned up in it, then Dean yanked off the smoldering bedclothes to smother the television fire. What's left of the mattress looks sad and grey and singed.

Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, hoping to god Dean doesn't suggest they share the remaining double bed.

Dean's eyes flicker as they move over room. As if reading Sam's mind, he says, "I dunno man, I say we get the fuck out of here. Find some place off the highway." He slants a glance at Sam from under his eyelashes. For a brief instant, he looks so knowing.

Sam nods, stomach rolling with nausea. In a corner of his mind, he knows too: they'll never talk about it, so they'll never get over it.

Still, he can't help but glance over his shoulder as they're leaving. As he flicks off the lights, he sees two ghosts in the darkness—his and Dean's—sees what they might have done if they hadn't been interrupted.

He shivers, part fear, part something else. Then he pulls the door closed tightly behind him.


End file.
